


Like Berries in Snow

by ForzaDelDestino



Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Both movie and book verse, Curious!Marcus, Initially hostile Esca, M/M, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 09:09:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForzaDelDestino/pseuds/ForzaDelDestino
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU. Marcus, a former combat photographer, now produces work for glossy magazines and journals. He is inextricably drawn to Esca, his new assistant. Who, as it happens, is not a particular fan of Marcus's commercial work.<br/>Written for the Fanmedia Challenge, ninth_eagle on LJ<br/>Inspired by the photograph of snow-covered red berries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Berries in Snow

 

 

  
[ ](http://s1181.photobucket.com/albums/x424/riventhorn/Eagle/?action=view&current=normal_cherriesfrost.jpg)

 

It said  _Marcus F. Aquila, Photographer_ , on his business card, and as far as Marcus could see, that pretty much covered things.

As his uncle reminded him from time to time, it was a perfectly good way to pay his rent, put food on the table, and keep his bank account and investments in decent shape. He was in the process of building a successful career as a commercial photographer, and was already respected by publishers, advertising agencies, and important magazine editors.

It didn’t matter that only a few years ago, he had been lauded as one of the finest and most daring combat photographers of the early twenty-first century. One of the best, who went into danger zones suited up like a combatant, embedded with the troops, in order to document the triumphs, failures, and horrors of war, the traumatic effect of military maneuvers and bombardment on soldiers and civilians alike. At home, in the States, he had also produced his own creative work, which had nothing to do with the military: serious, luminous black and white images, some almost abstract in their starkness, others—photographs of figures or faces—striking in their ability to capture the spirit or emotions of their subjects.

Then, during one of his overseas assignments, had come the injury. Marcus had never ceased to berate himself for not having flung himself out of the way in time, when the runaway jeep flipped over on top of him. With a damaged leg, he was out of the running, so to speak, for combat work, and since returning home, he hadn’t had the time to concentrate on his creative photography…between bouts of surgery to repair damaged muscle and bone, physical therapy, and trying to figure out what to do with the rest of his life.

Fortunately for himself and for his Uncle Aquila, who had looked after him during his months of convalescence, Marcus was not given to self-pity. He might give in to occasional bouts of gloom (when nobody else was looking) and sleepless nights, but he made certain to maintain at least an outward air of self-reliance and emotional strength. In spite of the limp that now plagued him, especially in damp or cold weather, he knew he could make a living using the abilities he had, and the techniques he had developed. So—once he was properly ambulatory—when Uncle Aquila’s old army colleague, Claude, had offered him work shooting a colorful, pink and yellow display of Florida grapefruits(!) for an advertising agency, who was he to say no?

Now he was a highly-paid creator of pretty pictures for glossy magazines. Not as highly paid as the best-known fashion photographers, perhaps, but his work—photographs of various aspects of the natural world, cityscapes, close-up views of animals, birds, insects—was in demand. Some of his images, those of wildlife in particular, still struck a chord in him and were, in his opinion, worthy of merit in either an artistic or documentary sense. A number of the pictures he took for nature journals, or magazines like  _National Geographic_ and  _Archaeology Today_ , weren’t bad; in fact, they still gave him a degree of satisfaction. But others—postcard-type images of pretty towns and landscapes, a fancy new architectural structure, a billionaire’s private collection of nineteenth-century glass paperweights—he regarded as soulless, meaningless, something with which to pay the bills but hardly work to be proud of.

And now he was off to photograph winter foliage at the Botanical Garden, for a book some horticulturist was trying to finish in time to make his publisher’s deadline. And the weather was unusually ferocious; it had been snowing for three days, and when it wasn’t snowing it was sleeting, so that a thin layer of ice lay over everything from pathways to branches to barren flowerbeds.

His assistant (and childhood friend), Cottia, was on maternity leave. It was roughly two weeks until her baby was due to be born, and she had experienced some minor complications that forced her to lie flat on her back in a hospital bed, and she would probably need to have a cesarean before her actual due date. But her doctor assured her that everything was going to be fine; and she kept in touch with Marcus via her mobile phone. When she wasn’t undergoing prenatal testing, she was sending him snarky text messages about how impossible he was going to find it to do this upcoming job without her.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

“We found a temporary assistant for you,” Servius Placido, Claude’s right hand man, announced as Marcus stepped into the office on the third day of snow and bitter, below-freezing temperatures. “If everything works out, he can stay with you for the duration of Cottia’s maternity leave.”

“That’s six months,” Marcus replied grimly. “You’d better hope he works out.”

Servius sniffed disapprovingly and jerked his head in the direction of Claude’s office. “He’s in there, talking to The Man. Looks like a high school kid, but he came highly recommended.”

Marcus nodded absently, casting an eye casually over the rows of photographs that had been enlarged, matted, and hung on one of the office walls—all produced for Claude and his various clients. He avoided conversing with Servius unless he absolutely had to; spoiled, cosseted politician’s sons were not his idea of congenial company. Not that he had ever met any other politician’s sons. There was just something about Servius that rubbed him the wrong way.

Claude’s office door opened, and Stephan, who had once worked for Uncle Aquila and was now (with Uncle Aquila’s blessing) Claude’s office manager, ushered in the new assistant. A pale boy with wayward, tawny hair and a long stride. Small and wiry, with a lean, taut build and a pair of cool blue eyes—he would discover, later, that they were grey-blue indoors, a brilliant aqua in the open air—in a narrow, keen-featured face. Straight brows beneath a high, well-shaped forehead, and, as Marcus noticed when they were introduced and he stepped up close for a handshake, dark bronze eyelashes just a shade deeper than the natural bronze highlights in his hair.

Servius gave the new assistant his typical, assessing glance, which lingered a bit longer than usual on his posterior region, before making the introductions in his bored and languid voice.

“Marcus, this is Esca Mac…MacCunoval. I trust I pronounce that correctly? Mr MacCunoval, Marcus Aquila. You know his work, I daresay?”

“Yeah, I suppose,” said Esca MacCunoval, shrugging slightly and looking anything but impressed. He had a light tenor voice, some kind of British accent. With one hand, he gestured towards the row of Marcus’s recent photographs of diamond-studded Art Deco jewelry, taken to document a famous collection being donated to the National Gallery in Washington, DC. “I’ve seen some of it. I know it.”

“And?” Servius pressed, a little sharply, obviously put out by the assistant’s lack of enthusiasm.

“Good of its kind.”

Marcus, accustomed to awe-struck junior photographers bubbling over with admiration and fulsome praise, was taken aback but not particularly displeased. It was nice to meet a young person who wasn’t influenced by hype, or instantly approving of what other people thought was good. In addition, Esca MacCunoval was giving no sign of being blown away by Marcus’s unquestionably hunky good looks, by his tall, muscular body, chiseled features and green eyes, as so many fledgling assistants (female or male) often were. In fact, he didn’t appear to be affected in any way by his surroundings, or by the well-dressed individuals who were now eyeing him critically.

“You do realize,” Servius drawled, in such an insufferable manner that Marcus was embarrassed for him, “that Mr Aquila’s work is considered unparalleled?”

“Oh for God’s sake, Servius,” muttered Marcus, but this statement had clearly got the young man’s back up.

“Right,” said Esca MacCunoval coldly, lowering his eyes. “I brought my portfolio, as you requested. Although I don’t see the need.”

“The need?” Marcus asked, realizing after the words left his lips that he should have kept his mouth shut.

“The need to show the great Marcus Aquila anything of mine,” replied Mr MacCunoval, pressing his lips together.

“Just show us your work, Mr MacCunoval, and then we’ll move on to the project at hand,” snapped Servius. “I’m sure we’ll all find your, uh, material quite  _fascinating_.” This was said with such lofty superciliousness that Marcus blinked and mentally lowered his face into his hands.

“If you feel it’s necessary,” the young man replied calmly, setting the portfolio down on the table. “After all, I’m not going to be asked to shoot anything.”

He undid the fastenings and stepped back, allowing his audience access. Looking down, Marcus found himself almost wide-eyed with surprise and pleasure. Instead of the usual sharp, bright, and well-glossed prints most photographer’s assistants provided as proof of their abilities, he was faced with small black and white images, neatly matted. Some had been shot in extreme close-up: a partial view of a child’s big-eyed face, an unidentifiable piece of rusted machinery. Many were—like his own work of years ago—almost abstract in their stark, angular compositions and simplicity. Others were less ambiguous, even straightforward. A train station with a derelict train carriage nearby, seen at a misty distance. A grove of trees in a ferocious wind. Marcus bit his lip; it had been a long time since he had been so impressed by a young photographer’s work.

”Interesting stuff,” he said, in a voice that gave away no trace of his opinion of what he had just seen. “You have a good eye, kid.”

It was evident that the “kid” was bound and determined to take everything Marcus uttered the wrong way.

“Look, we’ve got to work together and everything, but I can do without the condescension,” he said stiffly, reclaiming his portfolio and snapping it shut. His eyes, cold with scorn, skimmed the matted color photographs lined up against the wall: Marcus’s most monetarily successful commercial work. “I hate everything you stand for.”

This was stated so baldly that Marcus nearly took a step backward. But he maintained his expression of calm professionalism, hiding the hurt this scruffy boy had somehow managed to inflict on him, and looked at him without comment.

“I mean, it’s technically perfect and all that, but….”The youth gestured a little disdainfully. “Look, no offense, but I don’t do this kind of commercial tripe.”

Too proud, thought Marcus, caught between his injured feelings and a genuine sense of amused respect. Too uncompromising. But he could understand it; he had felt the same way once. Before his injury, and financial necessity, had made him turn to supporting himself in the only way he thought he could. And he could hardly blame the young photographer for his response to Servius’s arrogant needling.

Ten feet away, Stephan was grinding his teeth and glowering. “Mr MacCunoval, if you don’t want the job, I’m certain we can find somebody to take your place.”

Marcus stifled a grin, and then waved a hand as if to trivialize the whole thing. “Hey, it’s okay, Stephan, I don’t mind letting Mr MacCunoval have his say. He’s entitled to his, uh, views on these, uh...” He pointed vaguely at the lineup of glossy images, determined not to let the new assistant’s pronouncements frustrate him.

Besides, although he would not say as much to his colleagues, he found the young man interesting. His work was striking, sensitive, deserving of attention. And, ahem, Esca MacCunoval himself was an interesting specimen: he had raked his fingers through his russet brown hair, pushing it back from his brow, and it glowed under the office lights with strands of bronze, blond, and deep auburn. His mouth, pink, narrow-lipped but well-shaped, was tightly closed on what Marcus felt certain was another terse retort. He was standing with his weight centered over one leg, in what looked, almost, like a dancer’s pose, and Marcus was reminded of a long-legged yearling colt on the verge of flight.

This was promising…er, that is, the young man’s work was promising, and no doubt he would be a competent assistant. And he had to be an improvement over the last temporary assistant Claude had assigned him, a year ago when Cottia had been sidelined by the flu. The temp, an attractive blonde, had gone out drinking with the work crew at a local pub, once the shoot was finished, and had behaved very badly, even for a drunk person. In fact, she had behaved so badly that Marcus had finally approached her and growled at her to “for pity’s sake, get a grip.”

Perhaps he shouldn’t have been as surprised as he was when she completely misread his instructions, and got such a solid grip that her boss gave a yelp of astonished protest, disengaged her hand, and marched her straight out of the pub and into the waiting arms of her very embarrassed coworkers. He had borne no grudge—obviously the poor girl couldn’t hold her liquor—but had seen to it that Stephan never assigned her to work with him again.

At least he wouldn’t have to worry about anything similar happening with this intense, vaguely hostile young man. That was something to be thankful for.

So he threw a quick glance, half friendly, half challenging, at Esca MacCunoval, and gestured him into the conference room.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was a two-week job. It would have taken less time, if it hadn’t been for the weather, and the frigid chill heightened the discomfort in his bad leg. But Marcus wasn’t complaining, because he didn’t think he had ever been so diverted by a temporary assistant, or had ever felt so curious about somebody in his entire life.

It was like a game. Let’s see if I can make my sullen, unflappable assistant smile today. Let’s see if I can get him to look me in the eye for more than two seconds. Weekly challenge: make Esca MacCunoval laugh.

There was no denying that Esca was a very good assistant. He did the things he was meant to do, fetching and carrying, setting up equipment, holding grey cards and color charts in front of the subject matter, when told to do so. As well, he was obviously familiar with all of the lenses, filters, and other camera parts that Marcus used, knew just how to angle the lights for certain types of shots, how to raise or lower the tripod for the perfect height. He was every bit as competent as Cottia, and perhaps even more insightful. (Cottia had been a history major at university, and was not a practiced photographer, so Marcus felt obligated to cut her some slack on this account.)

For the first three days of the photo shoot, the two men worked in relative silence, speaking only when necessary. When Marcus found his good-natured attempts at friendly conversation rebuffed, he subsided, refusing to take offense, and watched his oddly graceful young assistant from the corner of his eye, so as not to annoy him. By the fourth day, Esca had thawed enough to respond civilly to Marcus’s instructions, questions, and comments, and once even grinned when Marcus suggested that they take a break, after three hours of shooting in an icy, driving wind, and buy some hot cocoa at the Botanical Garden’s glassed-in, indoor café.

By the morning of the end of the first week, Marcus had not succeeded in making Esca laugh, but he had gotten a few genuine smiles out of him, and felt that they were co-existing quite well, all things considered. Then, on Friday afternoon, as he sat basking in the feeble rays of sunlight coming through the glass walls of the café, enjoying a cup of fiercely hot coffee, he was startled when a duffel bag full of photographic equipment was slung onto the table in front of him with a clatter. Seconds later, a trim, lithe body dropped into the chair next to his, and Marcus looked up into a pair of eyes the color of the Mediterranean under sunny skies.

”I did a little research on you,” Esca MacCunoval said without any preamble. “I realized that I’d heard something about you in a newscast, a few years ago, so I went home and looked you up online. And I went to a bookstore to check out your work…your real work.”

Marcus raised his eyebrows and said nothing.

“Look, I didn’t know about your, um, war wound and all that,” Esca continued, looking only faintly uncomfortable. “Stephan…put me in the picture. I’m sorry I wasn’t more…But the work you did three, four years ago…it’s good, it’s really good.”

Marcus cleared his throat, and then grinned. “That’s nice to hear.”

“I still think fifty percent of the stuff you’re doing  _now_  is tripe.”

This was uttered with a conciliatory smile, but also with such sincerity that Marcus’s grin widened, and then he threw back his head and laughed. A moment later, Esca laughed too, a boyish laugh, rough around the edges, but Marcus, who had been rejoicing in the warmth of the café, suddenly felt much warmer, inside and out.

“Spoken with the confidence of youth,” he said amiably, once he had got his breath back. “S’fine with me. I don’t care if you don’t like my current output. As long as you do your job, and I do mine, we should be okay. Let’s stop early today, I need to run some errands before I can go home. Not something I ordinarily do on a Friday, but…”

“Who ordinarily does?” Esca asked blandly. “Run your errands, I mean. Mrs Aquila?”

“N-no,” responded Marcus, startled. “There is no Mrs Aquila.”

“Girlfriend, then?”

“No  _girlfriend_ ,” Marcus said emphatically.

“Um,” Esca murmured. “Er, significant other?”

“There’s no one at present,” Marcus replied, wondering whether he dared invite his temporary assistant out to dinner.

“Oh,” said Esca, and then lapsed into a meditative silence, as Marcus made a concerted effort not to blush.

They emerged from the cafe into a light rain, and a heavy mist that enveloped everything in haloes of white.

"Careful," said Marcus, putting a hand behind his assistant's elbow. "You could actually get lost in this."

Esca snorted. "This is nothing," he scoffed, looking round at the landscape muffled in dampness. "The mists where I grew up, near the Highlands, would put yours completely to shame."

********************

Halfway into the second week of the shoot, Marcus—who had an imp of mischief in him somewhere, in spite of his serious and disciplined demeanor—asked Esca what the hell the blue markings on his upper right arm stood for.

Esca raised sardonic grey-blue eyes to his own green ones, and permitted just a trace of a smirk to lift the corners of his mouth.

“Welllll,” he drawled, pulling up the short tee shirt sleeve (they were indoors, sorting photographic equipment) to reveal the lines that encircled his upper arm, within the borders of which, certain areas were filled in with a solid blue. “I got completely pissed at some Scottish festival a couple of years ago, and I, y’know, let a friend talk me into this.”

“Pissed?” said Marcus, confused.

“Drunk.”

“What’s it supposed to, uh, mean?”

Esca shrugged his shoulders, then yawned and stretched. Suddenly fascinated, Marcus watched the play of muscle and sinew in the young man’s trim, neatly modeled upper arms.

“Dunno,” said Esca, yawning again. “Something tribal.”

This word—which to Marcus evoked thoughts of the Cherokee blood that, according to family tradition, ran in his veins along with his Irish, French, and, of course, Italian genetic material—made him draw his brows together questioningly.

“You know, Celtic tribes. The ones who battled the Romans, and then later, the Saxons. This design is meant to be Brigantes, although I don’t know how they would have any idea, today, what sort of tattoos they wore. Anyway, they were formidable warriors. You know.”

No, Marcus didn’t know, but he thought that he wouldn’t mind being educated on the subject. As long as it was Esca, doing the educating.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

“So, how’s your assistant working out?” Cottia asked, via Skype, a day later.

“He’s fine,” Marcus said shortly. He was conflicted; should he invite Esca out for drinks? Ask him to dinner? Bodily fling himself at him? Although he was only a half year shy of turning thirty, it had been so long since he, himself, had been on the dating circuit that he felt disoriented and out of touch.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it, because I suppose you’ll want to use him for the next six months. Until I’m back.”

“When’s the baby due?” Marcus interrupted, changing the subject. Thoughts of working with Esca for the next sixth months were putting him into the sort of state he hadn't experienced since his freshman year at college. Completely at the mercy of a hard-on that came and went as regularly as the tide.

“I’m being sliced and diced tomorrow. Cesarean, you know. I’ll call you when it’s all over.”

“Please do,” Marcus said, wiping his brow. “Love you, kiddo. Good luck. If you’re too exhausted, have Guern give me a ring. Or he can send me a text if he’s too frazzled to do anything else.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx  

On the final day of the shoot, Marcus and Esca managed to complete everything with time to spare, and Marcus took his temporary assistant to a nearby sports bar, for a drink. The place, which also served food, was crowded with hockey fans screaming themselves sick over a Rangers-Bruins game, and Marcus managed to find a table as far from the television as possible. Esca slouched into the chair opposite him, shrugging off his wraps and inadvertently dislodging the three top buttons of his shirt, as Marcus flagged down a waiter and tried not to stare too openly at the ivory skin of his assistant’s throat and what little he could see of his chest.

That morning, they had photographed a cluster of nandina berries, bright red beneath their light coating of ice and snow. Marcus had been told that they grew wild in Asia, and were popular in Japan for flower arrangements and in landscape paintings; as tempting, as delicious as they looked, they were also supposed to be toxic. They made him think, by association, of his new assistant. Esca was tart and tangy, sharp and luscious at the same time, a hint of sweetness beneath the coolness of his aloof, withdrawn demeanor.A hint of danger:  _these berries are poisonous if consumed_ , eat them at your own risk! Oh Jeez! Forbidden fruit: rule number one, you do not fuck your assistants, your colleagues, your job associates. He wanted nothing more, at the moment, than to take Esca off to a private room, a hotel room, any room with a bed, and pound him into the mattress. Or, if Esca preferred, he could pound Marcus into the mattress. Whatever. As long as pounding was involved. He wanted to ravish those quirky, pink lips, rumple that tawny hair, murmur outrageous things into one of those rather outrageous ears. Since when had he started to find stick-out ears incredibly appealing? He wanted to see whether Esca was ivory-pale all over. But of course, it wouldn't be right, wouldn't be ethical. Esca was his assistant. And just how old  _was_  Esca MacCunoval, anyway?

“I’m over the legal drinking age, if that’s what you’re thinking about,” said Esca suddenly, as if he could read Marcus’s mind.

Marcus recalled that in the UK, the legal age was eighteen. “Here in the States, it’s twenty-one.”

“I’m over twenty-one, Mr Aquila. I’m twenty-four. Want to see my I.D.?”

"I believe you," said Marcus, secretly relieved beyond measure. "Majored in photography in college, did you?"

"Minored," was the response. "My major was Celtic languages. I speak Scots and Irish Gaelic, Welsh. You?"

"Military history," Marcus said, still distracted by Esca's partially opened shirt. "And I did three years of Latin, to boot."

“ _Amo, amas, amat_ , and all that shite,” Esca murmured companionably. “What’s the point, man? Nobody speaks that anymore.”

“And how many people speak that gibberish you were just telling me you studied?”

A week ago, those would have been fighting words, but now Esca only grinned, before ducking his head and laughing into his ale. Then he raised his face and looked Marcus directly in the eyes, his own sparkling with some secret amusement.

“ _An toir thu dhomh pòg_ , then?” he said calmly, leaning back a little against the wood of the booth.

“Huh?”

“It means, give us a kiss, then, will you?”

If Marcus’s hand hadn’t been propped beneath his chin, he would have found it necessary to return his jaw to its proper position.

Esca must be drunk.

That was it; Esca was drunk, and  _was not_  a mind reader, so he couldn’t possibly know much Marcus wanted to do just that. Preferably, more than just that.

"I'm  _not_  drunk, Marcus," Esca went on, reading his boss's mind for the second time that evening. They sat in congenial silence for a while, until Marcus flung some money on the table top and led the way outside. At the corner, just beyond the pool of light from a street lamp, Marcus pushed Esca against the wall and bent over his lips, but it was Esca who dominated their frantic kiss, guiding with his tongue and the gentle play of his sharp, white teeth, as he seized Marcus by his jacket collar and pulled him closer.

"Shouldn't do this," Marcus panted after several minutes, during which he had ceased to feel the cold at all. "We're working together, and...I really wanted to, really want...but people would say I was taking advantage of an assistant, and...don't want to treat you like...well, you know."

"You started this," Esca said, face pressed against his neck. "Don't you want to finish it?"

"I know I started it," Marcus stammered, pulling away a little. "It's my fault. My fucking fault, and I'm sorry."

“Okay,” breathed Esca after a moment, against his mouth, and Marcus could feel him smile. “You’re right. No funny business between coworkers.” He drew away a moment later, after letting the tip of his tongue dance lightly along the swell of Marcus’s upper lip.

“You’re almost too fucking honorable to be real, Marcus.”

“It just wouldn’t be right,” Marcus said in a strangled voice. “For me to put any kind of pressure on you. No matter how much I want you. Not while I’m your boss; that would be unconscionable.”

“Okay,” Esca said again, and he gave a genuine, almost tender, smile as his eyes slid downward past Marcus’s heaving chest, to the obvious jut of his erection beneath his jeans. “Not whilst we’re working together. Now, could you point me to the subway? I've lost all sense of direction, thanks to you.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The client, Claude told Marcus and Esca the following day, was more then pleased with what he had seen of Marcus's photographs, and there was another job coming up in less than a week. It would involve travel to Quebec City, Canada ("God! It'll be even colder there," Marcus expostulated), and would probably take at least ten days to finish.

Marcus went home that evening with thoughts of ten days in a hotel with Esca dancing through his brain, but when he appeared in the office the next morning, Claude met him with a cup of coffee and an expression of grim frustration.

"Sorry, my boy," he announced before Marcus could say anything. "We'll need to find you a new assistant. Mr MacCunoval has asked me to tell you that he can't work with you any longer, and we'll have to locate somebody who can do this job until Cottia comes back in the summer. What a pity! I thought the two of you were getting on quite well."

"I thought we were too," Marcus said in an expressionless voice, fighting to keep his disappointment, dismay, and--yes--his sadness, from showing. It was his own fault. If he had only kept his hands, and his thoughts, to himself. He had acted like a tease, and alienated a person to whom he felt more drawn than he ever had with anybody else. Now the talented, strangely beautiful, strangely fascinating Esca MacCunoval would go off to work with some other photographer, and Marcus, who did not even have his phone number, would probably never see him again.

"I'll see if that French fellow, Lee something, is available. I hear he's quite good, and very _reliable_ ," Stephan muttered as Marcus stalked into his small office. "I'll just ring him up. His first name's Lee...um, Leatham, isn't it?"

"Liathan," Marcus said absently, as he dropped into his desk chair and reached for the telephone. He hadn't heard from Cottia, and it was certainly time he called her. Some good news,  _any_ good news, might help to soften the harshness of Esca's sudden, unexpected, unexplained departure, and set him up in a positive frame of mind for the rest of the week.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

All was well with Cottia. She had had her infant, a boy, and she and husband Guern were still arguing cheerfully over what they should name him. Realizing that a baby gift was in order, Marcus left the office fifteen minutes early, with a mind to buying a blanket, a silver cup, or a suitable toy on the way home. Having made his purchases and had them wrapped in the appropriate blue paper, he headed for his residence, where, almost on the doorstep, he nearly ran over Esca MacCunoval, who was coming out of it.

"Watch it, you big lug," Esca said, smiling gravely. "Are you trying to send me to hospital? I was waiting in your lobby, but thought I'd step outside and get a cup of coffee. Are you alright, then?"

"I thought," said Marcus, almost hesitantly, and then paused. "You quit your job with me," he added, still trying to wrap his mind round Esca's presence in front of his building. "Claude said you'd gone."

" _You_  said, not whilst we're working together," Esca replied, lifting his chin. "So. I'm not working for you now. A friend offered me a job at the Natural History Museum, photographing fossils, and I've taken it. And now...well, here I am."

"You've..." said Marcus, trying to find the right words, because he could feel happiness stealing over him like one of those Highland mists Esca had spoken about a few days earlier. "I thought you said that sort of work was tripe."

"It's serious stuff," retorted Esca, and Marcus saw that he was grinning. "Not like photographing some old dowager's jewelry collection. And I'll have plenty of time for my own work. Now, aren't you going to invite me up to your flat, to see  _your_  best photos?"

“No,” growled Marcus. “I mean yes. But not to see my work. The photographs can wait.”

“Cool,” replied Esca in a calm, matter-of-fact voice, but he slid his hand into the pocket of Marcus's heavy winter jacket and pulled him towards the front door. "Get a move on, would you? I really don't like waiting to take care of unfinished business. Jesus, Marcus, you're  _shaking_."

"I'm  _cold_ ," said Marcus with dignity, fishing for his keys.

"That's okay," Esca murmured, blue eyes narrowed by his gentle smile. "I'll warm you up."


End file.
